


you've never looked better (sleeping in my bed)

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Male Slash, Romance, Slash, Superhusbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Tony sleeps in odd places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you've never looked better (sleeping in my bed)

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is unbeta'd. If there are any mistakes I apologise.

“Tony, d’you know where my—”

It’s an odd scene to walk in on; sprawled on the kitchen counter is a sleeping Tony, almost curled up in a ball, one of his arms hanging over the edge and his soft snores reaching Steve’s ears. The fridge door is open, a mug of what Steve guessed as coffee cradled—no, possessively wrapped—in Tony’s other hand, coffee beans and milk spilled on the floor, and he cannot help but shake his head at how ridiculous this is, but he doesn’t have a single sliver of disbelief.

Careful not to wake him up, Steve finds the closest blanket and places it over him, uncurling his fingers from the mug and setting it aside. He would have cushioned his head, but Tony is such a light sleeper that if a feather skims the ground, he’ll jump out of his skin, accidentally summoning his suit in the process, and it would take over half an hour for Steve or Pepper, or whoever is closest to calm him down, or in most cases, he’ll stalk off to his workshop and return to working himself into exhaustion. The whole reason why he’s asleep on the counter of all places.

He hums in his sleep, and it’s the few times Steve has seen him stress free—well, sort of, there is a slight furrow in Tony’s brow, the same one he gets when trying to untangle different equations and calculations, but he’s seen worse.

And it turns out it’s the longest he’s slept in the week; he’s still in the same spot, blanket wrinkled and held tight against him, four hours later.

* * *

It turns out Tony likes to drop off immediately after a mission, too.

Sweaty, with grease and dirt caking his face, and breathing hard, he collapses onto the ground, and huffs out, “Wake me up when the Shawarma place opens.”

And Steve doesn’t know why, but when he hears the familiar snores, he stays right where he is, doesn’t join the others as they return to the tower to clean up, but sits on the wall next to Tony, waiting, gazing around at the surroundings—which, thankfully this time haven’t been complete destruction, but some scattered debris and dented cars—and waits, and waits. Even when an hour passes, followed by a second, and Tony continues to sleep through the noises of New York, Steve doesn’t feel the need to leave him, not when his suit becomes uncomfortable to sit in, or the dirt on skin is dry and crusted.

The sun sets when Tony finally awakens, blurry-eyed and disorientated. It’s as if he hasn’t realised he’s fallen to sleep, on the street, still in his Iron Man suit, and Steve beside him. It’s a strange thing to absorb, how recently Tony’s slept for more than three hours each time, and the fact that he’s slept, which is unusual, considering most days he works in his shop, not once taking a break, or burning out from the drain of energy.

Sure, Steve can see the exhaustion on his features; blue, heavy bags under his slightly bloodshot eyes, his skin paled into a tired shade, and despite not admitting it, suffering headaches from the way he pinches the bridge of his nose or rubs his hand over his forehead. He denies any sort of fatigue, and uses the excuses that he is a machine, driving off the overwhelming thoughts in his mind. There’s no time for sleep, or breaks, or food, because if for one second he breaks that chain of thinking, it’s gone. And that’s great, that he has such a brilliant intellect it never runs out, always on the go, but even a genius needs to re-fuel, which isn’t a cheeseburger and four cups of coffee no matter how many times Tony tried to convince Steve otherwise. To see him now, though, dazed yet refreshed, Steve is happy that he is getting what he needs, and he doesn’t know why Tony has been like this all of a sudden, but he doesn’t need to know. Not really.

Tony scrubs a hand over his face. “Where is everyone? Wait, did they go to the Shawarma place without me? They could’ve at least brought a burger back, or some fries, or a diet coke, I’m dying of thirst here—”

“No,” Steve interrupts, unable to stop the small smile tug at his lips. “They’re back at the tower.”

“Why’re you here?” He asks, squinting. “Did I make you stay? If so, sorry about that, people have said I can be clingy, invading personal space, y’know, that sort inappropriate behaviour.”

Steve offers him a hand and hauls him off the ground, shaking his head. The smile only widens. “My staying here was voluntary.”

“Good, great, I’d rather avoid that lecture from Pepper again. Wait—” He says for the second time. “Why’d you stay?”

He shrugs. “I thought it’d be rude to leave you on your own.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks.”

* * *

Steve finds him on the stairs the third time.

He looks worse than he’s ever seen him. A bottle of scotch clenched between a white-knuckled hand, some staining his shirt, and his eyes darting underneath his eyelids as if he is dreaming—a horrid one, it appears, from the worried crease in his brow—and just when Steve thinks to leave him alone, Tony whimpers, a quiet, broken sound that sounds so small and shaky, it’s seems like he’s been de-aged by forty years. It hurts, a brutal punch to his chest, and then a tightening sensation circles his chest, so hard it chokes the breath from Steve’s throat.

Dropping to his knees, he rests his hand on Tony’s arm, gently pushing down in hopes that he’ll wake up. When he doesn’t, he shakes him lightly, and Tony’s eyes flutter open. He isn’t startled, or shocked, even out of breath like it usually did with Steve when he has a nightmare.

“You okay?” Steve asks, not releasing his hold.

“Yeah. Totally.”

His fingers are loose around the bottle now, and so Steve reaches over, extracting it from his grasp. From the way his gaze is distant, it can only point to one explanation. “Did you—” He hesitates. “Did you have an attack?”

Tony huffs a harsh laugh, tone tinged with sarcasm. “Never picked you as an observer.”

It’s difficult, when there are times where you think it’s easy to hold back what you want to say—that you’re the key to your mouth, and unless you unlock it, nothing, not a single word will colour the air, but Steve is a fool to convince himself that’s true. “Only to the things that matter.”

The silence that sinks into the atmosphere—sinks into Steve—is uncomfortable, and he inwardly curses himself for opening his mouth, but just as he nods, making a move to stand, Tony pulls him down, cupping the back of his neck and kissing him. There are no fireworks, or the burst of romantic music, but butterflies erupt in his stomach, like their wings are light, as he loses focus in the soft feel of Tony’s lips, the words he whispers against his cheeks, over his eyelids and lashes, and back to his lips again.

He grips onto Tony’s waist, fingers skimming over the exposed skin where his shirt has ridden up, and sighs, mixing with the taste of scotch that lingers in their kisses. Tony pulls away, but stays close. “D’you wanna know why I sleep better now?”

“Yes,” Steve replies without hesitation, brushing his lips along Tony’s neck. “Yes.”

But Tony tugs Steve away, pinning him there, the heat dispersing as a serious tone sets in, but he runs a hand through Steve’s hair, reassuring, almost caring, as he murmurs,

“Because you’ve always been there—for a moment or forever, it’s like I know you’re close. My own saviour.”

* * *

It’s warm when Steve wakes.

And comfy.

Plus, to feel the rough touch of Tony’s skin against his own is a bonus.

He’s always liked Tony, from afar, but after last night, his feelings had been returned. It feels wonderful, to help Tony ease his nightmares away, make him feel more comfortable, less panicky, and Steve has slept better, too. Maybe it’s because he has _someone_ to hold him in the night, or just the feel of a presence, but he likes to think that it’s because it’s _Tony Stark,_ a man so complex and whose personality clashes with Steve's, yet fill in the gaps of the things they most want, most need in their lives.

Tony does sleep in the oddest of places—some so unbelievable Steve has to take a picture to remind himself it actually happened—but as Steve gazes at him, stroking his fingers down the slope of his spine, he decides that Tony sleeping in Steve’s bed is that, out of all the surfaces, grounds, and places he’s slept in, this is the most normal.

And Steve hopes that it will be the _only_ place from this day on. 


End file.
